


Las burbujas

by brownest_goldfish_intheair



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Berlermo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24572377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brownest_goldfish_intheair/pseuds/brownest_goldfish_intheair
Summary: "Martín didn’t fall in love with Andrés; he loved him. He loved him long before he gazed at him across crowded rooms and stared at his lips while he spoke. Loved him not because he made his knees go weak or his heart jump out of his chest, but because he was his home."
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	Las burbujas

_The bubbles._  
  
Martín tried to keep his eyes open against cold water pressing down on his retinas as he watched the tiny pockets of air steadily float up from his mouth to the surface; a cheap copy of the poem he’d written in the comforting summer-heat of the Toscana, the words Andrés had used to recite it like warm honey dripping from his lips as Martín mapped out his eyes in the half-dark. Still, he took it, sucked it up like every ounce of affection Andrés had ever offered him, almost, _almost_ enough, as he drowned out the blurred outlines of his bathroom and let his body glide in between the mountains of gold, through the blues and greens of the first time they’d practiced diving together and he’d let go of his mouthpiece so Andrés could share his oxygen with him, his eyes laser-focused as he grabbed him by the shoulder and steadily guided him up to the surface without a single mistake; not taking a breath more than he needed, even though Martín would not have minded at all; he could easily wait for his air, if Andrés was the one holding it.  
And he got so used to it; to feeling safe even in the most dangerous situations, that when fear came back to him, creeping into the empty corridors Andrés had abandoned him in, he barely recognised it at first; barely recognised the memories of when he’d stayed out all night in shabby bars and clubs to avoid the small flat on the 6th floor where his mother was counting pennies at the kitchen table while his father finished the last bottle of Vodka in one sip; when he’d given his body away for a place to sleep because dignity was a luxury he simply could not afford.  
  
He’d buried them deep in between the bed-sheets of Andrés’ and his first year together; in the tapping of the rain against the window as he'd pulled him close and whispered: “Estoy contigo, mi amor. No te voy a dejar; nunca.”  
And Martín had not believed him, but with his hands clutching the soft fabric of his shirt he’d silently begged him to never stop saying it; to never stop cleansing the ugly stains off his soul.  
And Andrés, patient and calm, as if he were restoring a painting, had opened Martín’s heart bit by bit without flinching once at the destruction he found, until he didn’t tense up every time he touched him; didn’t look away when he called him beautiful.  
  
Martín didn’t fall in love with Andrés; he _loved_ him. He loved him long before he gazed at him across crowded rooms and stared at his lips while he spoke. Loved him not because he made his knees go weak or his heart jump out of his chest, but because he was his _home_.  
And he didn’t need anything else; what they had was already so much more than he had ever dared to hope for; so much more than he could ever deserve.  
But then Andrés _kissed_ him; kissed him even though he didn’t need to be kissed, but oh he _wanted_ to be kissed by Andrés; never wanted him to stop, so he greedily pulled him closer, not holding anything back because there was no reason to hide; not when Andrés had shown him through every touch, every word and every look that passed between them during the years that he would _never_ hurt him.  
  
And then he _did_. Andrés let go of him and turned away so he didn’t have to see his tears because it was too embarrassing, too pathetic to even watch.  
And it was like his mother and the man that had taken him dry in the backseat of his car in exchange for two grams of coke and his boyfriend who had beaten him to a pulp and never visited him while he was lying on the hard hospital-bed, had all lined up to laugh at him, bathing it their triumph, their eyes saying: “We told you so, didn’t we?” And all Martín could do was nod in defeat because of course, how could he have been naïve enough to think, even for a second, that anyone could ever love him?  
  
It made him want to cry; no, _laugh_. Was that the rush of euphoria you feel right before you drown? No, you have to breathe in water first. _Had_ he breathed in water? He couldn’t tell because all he could feel were Andrés lips on his and his hands on the back of his neck and his chest bursting as he sobbed on the ground, clutching his throat because he was sure he would never speak a word again. But it was okay because the water tasted like salt now and they’d just returned from 20 meters below the sea and the sun was starting to set as Andrés wrapped a towel around his shoulders and ran his hands down his arms while Martín tried to blink the dryness out of his eyes, his brain still heavy from the nitrogen and all his thoughts came to a peaceful rest in Andrés’ voice when he said: “Quiero fundir oro contigo.” and added, just when he was about to close his eyes and let exhaustion take over: “Pero tienes que respirar, mi amor. _Ahora_.”  
  
And Martín ended up clutching the edge of the bathtub, coughing and gasping as the early-morning air passed like a ghost over his shivering body and the noises down in the street started to replace the faint ringing in his ears; they kept him bitter company as he leaned his forehead against the ice-cold porcelain and let his tears fall into the unforgiving water, the aftertaste of Andrés voice slowly fading out of his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry :(  
> thanks for reading xx


End file.
